


barefoot on a summer night

by emmaofmisthaven



Series: barefoot on a summer night verse [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Bisexual Character, Multi, Platonic Soulmates, Polyamory, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Miller just moved out so I have a spare room if you like. It’s out of town but it’s not like you’ll need to come on campus anyway.”<br/>“You don’t even know me."<br/>“Well truth is, you look like a rightful mess right now… But if Octavia likes you, it means you’re our type of rightful mess, so you’ll fit in just fine. And I don’t have to look for a new roommate that way, so everybody wins.”</p><p>The one where Clarke learns that happiness sometimes is more than what her mother wants it to be.<br/>Or, a study in character for Clarke Griffin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin, I want to make things clear: this isn't a romantic Bellarke fanfic. As in, they are not going to fall in love in that fic, but I do believe there is more to life that love so those two are in it for a deep connection anyway, falling somewhere between platonic soulmates and fuck buddies.
> 
> This fic will also contain, among other things: Clarke being openly bisexual, Princess Mechanic, Clarke x Raven x Bellamy ot3, ace!Monty, trans!Miller, Minty, Linctavia, some Clexa. Among other things. Tags will get updated as we go along, as well as the rating.
> 
> For everyone who kept reading despite the first paragraph, I hope you enjoy what I have to offer.

She takes a deep breath before looking at her reflexion in the rearview mirror, wiping her fingers under her eyes to get rid of the smears of eyeliner. Her eyes are red and swollen, her make-up ruined, and she looks like a rightful mess. Nothing Clarke can do about this at the moment, though, so she takes another deep breath and gathers the little courage she has left before she exists her car.

She slips into the building when two students, obviously already drunk despite the early hour, badge in, and decides for the stairs instead of the elevator – there’s a huge mirror in there and she refuses to look at her reflexion if she doesn’t have to, refuses to acknowledge her appearance as of right now, tears in her eyes and wrinkled clothes and messy hair.

No, she’d rather bury her head in the sand.

Or, rather, in alcohol. That’s part of the reason why she’s knocking on Octavia’s door after all, because she knows the brunette always keeps a bottle of vodka for emergency – and it’s a 911 call if Clarke has ever seen one.

The other, most important, part is that she has nowhere else to go, not with Wells living halfway across the country and all her high school friends – actually, Wells was her high school friend and there’s that. So Octavia is it, because Octavia is discreet and nice and a bit rough around the edges too, so she will – if not understand, at least she will be kind about it.

So Clarke heads for the second floor, relieved that the hallways are empty – she can hear the buzz of the common room down the hall and music coming from rooms, but doesn’t meet a soul – as she reaches the third door to the left. She hesitates, if only for a second, before she knocks.

The paddle of feet on floor grows louder (Octavia has never been a quiet one in any aspect of her life) before the door opens slightly, the brunette peeking out through the gap.

“Clarke?” She opens the door all the way, ushers Clarke inside. It doesn’t take a genius to notice her state of disarray, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when the next words in Octavia’s mouth are, “What happened?”

Clarke sniffs pitifully, fighting against the telltale prickle behind her eyes as she takes a deep breath, letting the air out through her nose. It doesn’t quite work the way she had hoped, though, because a sob gets stuck at the back of her throat when she tries to speak. “I’m sorry – I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Octavia Blake is many things – fierce, loud, impulsive – yet Clarke would have never thought ‘tender’ could have made it to the list. But she softly pushes Clarke toward her small dorm bed, invites her to sit with a rub of hand against arm, and Clarke finds herself thinking she actually doesn’t know much about her friend beside what shows on the surface.

She is about to explain, or at least try to, when she’s startled by the sound of the toilet being flushed in the bathroom. Her eyes open wide as she realises they might not be as alone as she thought they were, and at the same moment the door to the bathroom opens and –

“I should go now if I – _oh_.”

His eyes are just as wide as her as the guy takes her in, and the surprise Clarke reads in them is soon replaced by sheer panic. No doubt because he’s a guy and she’s a girl crying, and those two things never work well together. He glances at Octavia, a silent question hanging between them.

“Bell, this is Clarke. Clarke, Bellamy, my brother.”

Clarke nods in acknowledgment, while Bellamy stares at her once more, a frown appearing on his forehead. “You okay?”

She knows of him, of course – the infamously protective older brother. It must be nice, she thinks, to have someone watching your back. Something she will never know, as an only child – still, a girl can dream. And she sees that protectiveness in his eyes now, as they remain on her, one eyebrow quirked as he seems to wait for an answer and – right, he’d asked a question.

“I’m fine.”

Because, for all intends and purposes, Bellamy is a stranger to her. Her friend’s brother, but still a stranger, and the last thing she wants is to vent about her problems to him when she came here to vent about her problems to _Octavia_. But the guy just folds his arms on his chest, obviously unimpressed, while his sister softly nudges Clarke’s arm. “It’s your mother, right?”

The knots in her stomach are back with a vengeance as she finally breaks the stare-down contest she was having with Bellamy to look at Octavia, who starts rubbing her back immediately. Clarke fights again a new wave of tears as she puts the beginning of en explanation into words. “I dropped out of pre-med. My mother didn’t like it – we fought – she kinda kicked me out. Or I left, I’m not sure I –” She swallows down yet another sob. She’s been doing that a lot tonight. “Can I sleep here? Just tonight, I have –”

“Nowhere else to go,” Octavia finishes for her, and so Clarke nods.

They stare at each other then, some kind of understanding and agreement between them in that one look alone. Octavia’s roommate is never there for the weekends anyway, so it’s not as if they will annoy her, and Clarke really hopes she will find a more permanent solution tomorrow so she doesn’t have to crash on Octavia’s floor two nights in a row.

She isn’t all that confident about that, though.

“You can come live with me.”

That’s the second time Bellamy startles her in so many minutes. And, okay, truth is she had forgotten about him, what with being lost in her own thoughts and everything but – but nothing compares to the look she throws his way then, taken aback by his proposition, and the way he just shrugs casually in reply.

“Miller just moved out so I have a spare room if you like. It’s out of town but it’s not like you’ll need to come on campus anyway.”

Clarke elects to ignore the small doses of sarcasm he manages to pour in his words even as he’s playing the Good Samaritan. She’s yelled and screamed enough as it is today to want to do the exact same thing with Octavia’s brother just because he so happens to be ruffling her feathers a bit.

“You don’t even know me,” is the only things she finds to reply instead.

He leans against the wall, shrugs some more. “Well truth is, you look like a rightful mess right now… But if Octavia likes you, it means you’re our type of rightful mess, so you’ll fit in just fine. And I don’t have to look for a new roommate that way, so everybody wins.”

“I can’t pay the rent.”

“I never said there was a rent.” He has the audacity of rolling his eyes. Douchebag.

Still, she has nowhere else to go. It might be a mistake – it is the textbook definition of a mistake, let’s be real for a second there – but she literally has nowhere else to go.

Clarke accepts.

 

…

 

She crashes on Octavia’s bed after all, and Octavia on her roommate’s bed, after they share the bottle of vodka and watch cartoons on Netflix. It’s late – or early in the morning, depending on the point of view – when Clarke finally falls asleep, mind buzzing with alcohol and tears she forces herself not to cry. She feels like she wakes up the moment her head touches the pillow, but the sun is bright in the sky and her headache strong between her eyes and someone is knocking on the door.

A very familiar, very early rising someone.

(Gosh please, tell her he’s not always that early a riser because she won’t tolerate that if she has to live with him.)

Bellamy has the decency of waiting for her to take a shower before he drags her out of the dorm and down the stairs – something about having papers to grade and she vaguely remembers Octavia telling her about his doctorate in Ancient history and his job as a TA in – not their university, actually. She has no idea where he lives but, if she had to take a guess, it would be closer to Mount Weather U than to Ark College.

She guesses she’ll find out soon enough anyway.

And that’s basically how Clarke finds herself following his car through the Saturday morning traffic. Thankfully it is not that long a journey, and soon she finds herself pulling over in front of an old building – the kind her mother always complains about, because it’s not all new and shiny, and so not occupied by the kind of people they should mix with. As if Clarke cares about that kind of things.

Bellamy jogs towards her car when she opens her truck, and he quirks an eyebrow as how packed the entire car is. (It’s a miracle she could use her rearview mirror at all.)

“That all?” he says in a laugh as he grabs the first box.

She wants to tell him it indeed is not, because all her books still are at her mother’s and she only had time to grab her clothes and art supplies, but – but Clarke thinks better of it after a few seconds, when she understands he’s only teasing. Huh. She’ll probably have to get used to that, too.

He leads the way inside the building then up to the third floor, second apartment to the right. Clarke barely has time to take in her surroundings before they go down again, then up, and down, until her car is empty and her boxes and bags in the bedroom.

Her head spins a little.

“Are you sure?” she can help asking, because it feels too much too fast.

“You’re the kind of girl who eats her veggies raw and puts quinoa in everything?” She snorts, shakes her head. “Then we’re good.”

And then he winks – actually _winks_ at her – before he gives her a tour of the apartment. Just two bedrooms, more than enough for the both of them. The place is small though, smaller than she’s used to, but Clarkes guesses her life as the Dean’s daughter is over now and she just have to learn to live with what is given to her. And that, that is more than she ever hoped she would get after she slammed the door to her childhood’s home behind her.

“O and I own the place so there’s no rent,” Bellamy explains as he grabs two beers in the fridge, hands her one. It’s barely eleven in the morning, but a beer sounds perfect as of right now. “Just help with the bills would be nice like, electricity and stuff.”

She nods as she takes a sip, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I saw a dinner around the corner, I’ll check if they’re hiring people. I’ll find something.”

She needs a job anyway, if she wants to pay for her art supplies and for basically everything else she’ll need from now on.

Bellamy stares at her for long seconds, seemingly trying to read her soul, before he goes on. “I didn’t ask yesterday but… You’re the Griffin girl, aren’t you?”

Her spine straightens. “Yeah.”

“Welcome to the real world, princess.”


	2. Chapter 2

This first month is – it’s a mess alright. She gets a job as a waitress at the diner around the corner, and so she’s given a uniform, the kind where the skirt is so short and the shirt so tight it makes her blush and – and she starts her shifts at seven every morning and it’s a tiring process, staying on her feet all morning long, taking orders and serving meals and avoiding men with wandering hands. She’s not joking when she says she goes to sleep at nine every night, something that hasn’t happened since middle school. She’s just that exhausted all the time.

She remembers Bellamy on that first day and the way he had laughed a _welcome to the real world, princess_ , and she wants to punch him in the face for how right he was. Because he was, and she only now realises how lucky she was never to have a job, as a student or as a teenager, how lucky she was for her parents always paying for her, always giving her money when she needed, when she asked.

She’s exhausted, but at least she pays the bills from the moment she starts living with Bellamy, and that’s something.

Being poor is awful.

Being in someone’s debt would be worse.

At least it’s the thought she has as she comes back home that afternoon, feet aching and back hurting. She hears the humming of the television the moment she steps inside, and knows Bellamy isn’t at the university today.

She’s yet to learn his schedule by heart – isn’t even sure he actually has one, between the lectures he attends and the seminars he gives, the hours spent in the history lab and those spent in the library. But one thing is sure, one thing she learnt on the very first week – if Bellamy is home, then the television is on. And if the television is on, then it’s on the National Geographic Channel.

Clarke rolls her eyes at the monochord voice-off and makes her way to the kitchen, opens a cupboard to grab a mug – the one that reads ‘World’s best brother’ – and a bag of tea. She plays with the magnets on the fridge as she waits for the water to boil, leaving a silly message her roommate will probably complain about as soon as he sees it, because he just likes to complain about the tiny details.

Mug in hands, its warmth comforting against her palms, she makes her way to the living room and takes her place on the couch, knees to her chest and toes hiding beneath the little blanket they keep there at all times. Bellamy sits on the floor with his back against the couch, a pile of papers on the coffee table and a red pen between his teeth. He barely looks up when she enters the room, too focused as he is on the paper he’s reading, so Clarke focuses on the documentary on television right now, something about penguins or orcas or what-have-you.

“Had a nice day?” he says after a while, as he scribbles one big B- and circles it.

He looks up to her, and his eyes are open, like he actually cares about the coffee and waffles and sandwiches she served all morning long. Maybe he does. Who knows what goes on in that head of his, after all?

“Yeah. Didn’t get groped today, so it counts as a victory, right?”

“Oh, definitely.” He throws the paper on the table, grabs another one. “How you haven’t punched anyone in the face is a mystery to me.”

“I care about my job, apparently.”

He scoffs to that, and they settle into a comfortable silence as she sips on her tea and focuses back on the seals on the screen in front of her.

She falls asleep at some point, afternoon naps becoming a habit of hers apparently. When she wakes up, the little blanket is thrown over her shoulders and the volume turned down and Bellamy is still grading papers. She smiles, and goes back to sleep.

 

…

 

Tuesdays are her day off, and she usually spends them sleeping until noon and eating cereals in front of cartoons. It’s the day Bellamy gives classes on mornings and works on his thesis with his professor on afternoons, so Clarke has the entire apartment to herself – a chance she doesn’t let slip through her fingers, enjoying the quietness and loneliness as much as possible.

It is one such day and Clarke lounges on the couch, not even having bothered changing out of hers PJs – something she knows Bellamy will complain about, which makes it all the more enjoyable – as she watches some random movie Netflix chose for her. She’s not all that invested in the story, falling in and out of sleep every minute or so, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. It is her day off, after all.

Which makes it all the more surprising when she hears the sound of keys coming from the hall, the sound of someone opening the door. She glances at the clock – 4pm, way too early for Bellamy to be back – and her heart starts racing because it is her mother’s every nightmare and every complain, casual robberies in poor neighbourhoods.

So Clarke looks around her before she grabs the most threatening weapon she finds. Meanly, the remote. Because it’s their living room, and it was either that or a book Bellamy left on the coffee table the previous night. Knuckles turning white around the remote, she sits straighter and regrets not taking Octavia on her offer to go to her kickboxing classes with her. They seem quite important, all of a sudden.

“Yo, Blake, you here?” is the first thing she hears when the doors opens.

She sees him before he spots her as he stands in the doorframe, hand still on the handle – tall, black and gorgeous. Because of course he is. Gorgeous, that is. Which doesn’t make him any less of a threat, since he entered the apartment without any difficulty and now stands between the exit and her. Just what Clarke needed.

She’s thinking of grabbing her phone on the coffee table and calling 911 when he turns his head toward the living room. He, of course, spots her immediately, eyes growing wide with surprise.

“You’re not Bellamy.”

Her grip on the remote relaxes. A little. It’s reassuring, almost, to hear her roommate’s name – means the guy knows him, so there’s that.

“And you’re not a burglar,” Clarke finds herself saying.

The guy chuckles, like he’s sharing some kind of private joke with himself, before he lifts the hem of his jacket to show her the badge at his belt. “No, I’m not a burglar.”

She finds herself breathing properly for the first time in so many minutes, a sigh of relief on her lips, before she frowns again. “Who are you?”

“Who are _you_?”

“I’m the roommate.”

Something flashes in his eyes before his mouth breaks into a grin as he finally let the pan of his jacket fall back by his side. “Oh you’re the new me!” he says, almost too gleefully for such a statement, as he closes the door behind him and steps closer to her. “I’m Miller, by the way. Nathan Miller.”

The name does ring a bell, kinda, and Clarke remembers how Octavia and Bellamy had talked about his ex-roommate. She knows next to nothing about the man now standing in front of him, and it is weird, all things considered. Bellamy is yet to bring friends at the apartment, and Clarke had just assumed his was the loner type, the way she had been before she dropped out, too busy studying and working to bother with something as trivial as socializing. Which is exactly why she is yet to bring friends, too. She can count those on one hand, and that’s being generous.

“I’m Clarke,” she replies with an awkward hand wave, after she finally let go of the remove.

Miller nods, and that gesture is enough to carry a ‘nice to meet you’ along with a ‘yeah, I know who you are’, which is impressive in itself. But he seems nice, if his smile is anything to go by, so Clarke elects not to focus on the fact people she had no idea existed know who she is. Too disturbing a thought for the time being.

“I was in the neighbourhood so I decided to drop by, which… Not good timing, apparently.”

Clarke laughs at that. “It’s never good timing with Bellamy.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Miller seems to be getting cosy in there – as in, shrugging off his jacket and dropping it on a nearby chair like he still lives there and just came home from work – so Clarke decides the best plan of action from there is to simply rolls with is. So she offers him something to drink, and soon finds herself chatting with him in the kitchen as she sits on the count and he leans against the fridge. It’s basic chitchat at first – he tells her of their neighbours, mostly, and how she’d rather not upset the old lady from the fifth floor because she’s dangerous, _really_ dangerous. But then she tells him of working at the diner, and he tells her of working as a cop, and soon Clarke finds herself laughing at the sarcasm he pours in his every word, at the witty stories he tells her.

She doesn’t realise how much time has passed under she hears the front door opening again.

Bellamy enters the apartment, Octavia in tow, and stops in his tracks when he spots the both of them still in the kitchen. A frown mars his brows as he shakes his head. “She steals my food, she steals my friends…”

“Hey! Not my fault I’m more likable than you.”

He rolls his eyes even as he pulls Miller into a brotherly hug, and Clarke does the same with Octavia, sharing some kind of ‘hey, you okay?’ ‘yeah, you?’ conversation with her friend. It is so weird, to live with one Blake now and barely seeing the other, more important, one – it feels like ages since she last saw Octavia, and up until now Clarke hadn’t realised how much she was missing her friend.

“I have so many things to tell you!” Octavia tells her excitingly at the same time Bellamy asks Miller, “What you doing here, by the way?”

Clarke focuses on the former and forgets the latter as her friend tugs on both her hands until they both sit on the couch in the living room. She doesn’t beat around the bush, in true Octavia fashion, and jumps straight into the story of how she gave some fuckboy a black eye during a party she attended last week. She’s laughing while she tells the story, of course, and Clarke is reminded of the kickboxing classes she attends every Monday night – Octavia had wanted her to come with her, but Clarke had a lecture at the same time. Octavia had pouted when she had declined the offer.

“Oh gosh, and you should have seen the frat house. Totally out of a tv show!”

“What were you doing in a frat house anyway?”

Octavia glares at her brother as he comes to sit with them, two beers in hand – he offers one to Clarke, and offers a raised eyebrow at Octavia’s affronted look. Miller laughs as he sits on the floor, elbows on the coffee table.

“Partying. Having a life. You know, the things people do when they’re not _nerds_.”

“Yeah, I heard about it.”

Watching the Blake siblings is a bit like watching a tennis match, and Clarke follows the conversation as she glances from one to the other, over and over again. Her eyes meet Miller’s at some point – he shrugs and rolls his eyes, obviously used to the siblings’ antics by now. Well, she isn’t, and it’s a bit surreal to watch for her who is an only child, for her who grew up alone in a too big, too silent house. She envies them, almost, the easy way with which they throw sarcastic lines at the other’s face, take it all in stride with a smirk and joy in their eyes.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Octavia says, as if this word alone allows her to win the argument – and it probably does, come to think about it. “Chinese tonight, huh? Miller, is your better half coming?”

“Yeah, sure. Let me tell him.” He shuffles a little on the spot so he can grab the phone in his pocket, and Clarke watches him send a text.

“Cool, it’s a party then!”

She feels like a stranger, all of a sudden. They are not her friends, not really – they are not her crowd, they’re their own group already, with private jokes and well-oiled habits and Chinese take-outs because why not. She doesn’t belong there, doesn’t belong with them. So, as furtively as possible, she grabs her half-empty bottle of beer and makes a run for the kitchen – maybe if she pretends to pour herself another drink she can then go hide in her room and let them have their little gathering without feeling like an awkward fifth wheel.

She’s tired anyway.

Sleep is good.

She’s putting her bottle in the bin when she hears footsteps behind her, and so braces herself for the confrontation that can only come in a few seconds.

“Hey, you okay?”

With a sigh, Clarke turns around to face Bellamy – there is barely hidden worry in his eyes, and it startles her more than she would like. He can play the worried, protective older brother with Octavia all he likes, but not with her, thank you very much. She can take care of herself, and certainly doesn’t need a guy to handle her antisocial shit.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just going to –”

Going to what, exactly? The ‘I can’t, I’m studying’ excuse no longer works with her, when it was her stock excuse since she was old enough to use it. She can’t lie about that, not anymore, not to him. Something tells her that Bellamy would see right through her lies anyway, even if she were still in college.

Bellamy who doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head to the side as he stares at her.

And that’s the story of how she finds herself sitting on the floor next to Miller, with more take-out boxes than they ever will be able to eat in one go, as she listens to one story or another, chimes in every so often. Turns out that Miller’s better half, one soft, quiet guy named Monty, is basically as much of a sweetheart as his cop boyfriend is – minus the flood of sarcastic retorts, of course.

Monty says something about his job at some point, a throwaway comment really, but it still has Clarke frowning a little – once again, she’s off the loop, and doesn’t like it one bit. “Sorry, what’s your job?”

“He’s a florist,” Miller says at the same time Bellamy replies, “He’s a hacker.”

Octavia snorts as the two men glare at each other, while Monty has the decency to look embarrassed. Clarke’s eyes widen as she takes in the Mexican standoff unfolding in front of her eyes.

“I’m a florist,” Monty chimes in when he notices that the other two won’t give the right answer for him. “My parents own a shop, I help them.”

“Yeah, my boyfriend doesn’t do illegal stuff, no matter what those two morons will tell you,” Miller adds, being apparently done with whatever moment he and Bellamy were having.

Clarke nods, a little too solemnly perhaps, which makes it all the more awkward when she snorts at the way Octavia points to Monty and mouths ‘totally a hacker’ in a way that Miller doesn’t see. Monty looks bashful, red high on his cheeks, and Clarke knows better than to ask questions.

 

…

 

She asks questions the moment the door closes behind them.

“Hacker, huh?”

Bellamy barks a laugh even as he makes his way back to the living room and starts stacking up the empty boxes of food to throw them away. She follows suit, and grabs the dirty glasses they used that night.

“Oh, he’s definitely a hacker. Well, used to be, really.” Back in the kitchen, he opens the bin with his foot and throws everything in it, before turning back to her. He doesn’t need probing to grab a dishtowel and wipe the glasses she’s now cleaning. “Miller is in denial about that, says a cop would never date a criminal, that kind of stuff. We play along, mostly. Still fun to piss him off, though.”

She laughs and shakes her head. Wells and she used to do it all the time too, before he moved for college – pushing the other’s buttons and ruffling their feathers and all the stuffs that come with a fire-forged friendship and tight bond. She misses this. She misses him.

With a shakes of the head, she focuses back on the task at hand. “How long have you know each other?”

“Miller? Basically forever. Went to school together and all. His father lives two blocks from here, actually. And, well, Monty came along a few years ago. Got comfy there, never left.”

“’Got comfy there’. Gosh, and they say romance is dead.”

He laughs again even as he bumps her hips with is, and Clarke is mature enough to poke her tongue at him in retaliation. Bellamy rolls his eyes, before he opens the cupboard above him to put away the glasses.

After a last glance around, Clarke decides it is more than time to go to bed – she has an early shift in the morning, after all, she needs to rest before she goes back to dealing with wandering hands and bad tippers.

“Hope you had fun,” she hears him say from the kitchen.

She realises that she did, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Friday nights with the Blakes and the Miller-Greens (as Octavia so likes to call them when she doesn’t go full Brangelina by calling them ‘Minty’) become a fixture in Clarke’s life before she even has time to realise it is happening. She gets used to it, spending a few hours with the gang, beers and pizzas at the ready, as they share jokes and laugh and even play video games sometimes, when Bellamy isn’t too much of an old grandpa about it. She likes it, likes the regularity of it, and soon finds herself looking forwards to sharing this or that story with Miller, a certain piece of gossip with Octavia, a kind smile with Monty.

What she doesn’t get used to, on the other hand, is the parade of girls Bellamy brings back home all the other nights. And she gets it, she totally does – because, seriously, have you seen Bellamy? The guy is sex on legs, and has every right to take advantage of his good DNA pattern.

Still, it’s always a bit awkward when she’s eating breakfast and some girl stumbles out of Bellamy’s room, clothes barely on and eyes growing wide when they spot her, mouthful of cereals in her mouth. Some freak out on the spot, afraid she’s the girlfriend and so a murderer in the making. Others indulge her in the best walk of shame of all times, and Clarke watches as they leave the apartment, staring at the floor as they mutter some words – a goodbye or a sorry, depending of the day, of the girl.

It is one such morning, book propped up on the bottle of milk for her to read and eat her cereals at the same time (the story is so overwhelming she wants to finish it as soon as possible), when the door to Bellamy’s room opens and closes softly. Too softly for her caveman of a roommate, that’s for sure. Still, when Clarke looks up to the other woman, she doesn’t expect the Latina beauty standing there in nothing but barely-there shorts and a tank top, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders and eyes too bright for such an early hour. Urgh, sex hair and morning after glow looking good on her where Clarke would look like she spent a night under a bridge, life is so unfair.

“Hey,” she says as she goes for the fridge, like she simply belongs here, like she’s always done that. Clarke likes her on the spot, even more so when she grabs the last cup of Greek yoghurt, the ones Bellamy pretends he buys for Octavia because he’s too much of a manly man to admit he has the weirdest guilt pleasures on earth. Damn, he will be pissed. Good.

Latina wonder leans with her elbows on the kitchen counter as she eats her yoghurt, and Clarke pretends not to stare at the way her mouth wraps around the spoon every so often, because she smells of sex and Bellamy. Clarke isn’t that desperate as to pick her only night stands in the list of one night stands of her roommate, and so she can’t allow her mind to wander right now.

She really can’t…

“I definitely picked the wrong roommate.”

… Unless she can.

Clarke’s snaps up at the sentence, eyes growing wide as she meets the other girl’s eyes. There’s the ghost of a smirk on her lips even as she takes another mouthful of yoghurt, like she’s proud of herself.

“Cute,” is the answer she gets, but not from Clarke.

Both girls look to Bellamy as he enters the room, wearing nothing but boxer briefs even if Clarke told him times and times again that clothes weren’t invented for nothing. The other girl rolls her eyes.

“Whatever keep you asleep at night, darling,” the girl goes on, pouring a fair dose of sarcasm in her every word. She blows Bellamy a kiss as she stands straighter. “Anyway, I should go. Thanks for the breakfast and whatever last night was.”

It’s Bellamy’s time to roll his eyes – Clarke knows him well enough by now to know that his ego doesn’t bruise easily, especially not when sex is involved. Which, gross. She shakes her head at the thought, and startles when she sees the girl handing her a piece of paper.

“My number,” she says with a wink, before barking something in Spanish (something that definitely sounds like a Spanish curse) when Bellamy tries to snatch it from her grip. “Not for you, I said.”

So Clarke takes the piece of paper. A number is indeed scribbled there, and with it a name – Raven. When she looks up again, Raven winks at her before she presses two fingers to her temple in a lazy salute. She is gone in a matter of seconds, leaving Clarke to stare at the spot where she was standing seconds before, and to wonder if the last five minutes were real. Because they sure don’t feel real to her.

“You got game, princess,” Bellamy says, even as he tries to take the number from her again. Child.

So, equally as childish, she pokes out her tongue to him. “Better game than you, huh?”

He simply laughs and shakes his head as he turns around to make some coffee. Not once does he ask about the fact that it’s a girl, or that Clarke slips the number in the pocket of her hoodie. That, more than anything else, unsettles her.

 

…

 

He drags her to a bar two days later, because he spent the day locked in the library and she had the most dreadful day at work – she spilled a cup of coffee all over a customer’s lap, and it is a miracle that she wasn’t fire on the spot – so they both need to unwind tonight. Which of course involves alcohol and loud music, because Bellamy wouldn’t have it any other way. Especially for the alcohol part.

He’s twirling his glass of whiskey in his hand, one elbow on the bar counter, as he looks at the crowd around them. The bar isn’t as busy as it would be expected on a Saturday night, but still busy enough for Bellamy to have his I-am-a-man-on-a-mission face on as he scans every face with a frown marring his brow.

“So, what are you into?” he asks as last.

Clarke almost chokes on her own drink. “Are you playing wingman?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes, as if the answer is that obvious. “You’ve been living at my place for two months, and I know for a fact you haven’t gotten some for just as long. That’s just sad.”

She doesn’t know if she wants to be offended or embarrassed. A bit of both, perhaps, and she drowns it all in a large gulp of alcohol. It burns her throat and settles warming in her belly, but does nothing to her nerves.

“I know you’re into pretty brunettes, obviously…” Bellamy goes on, and she fights against a blush at the memory of Raven’s never-ending legs, so long and so tanned and – yeah. “Blondes? Redheads?”

“Are you only looking for girls?”

It startles him, slightly, as he finally looks to her. There is a frown above his eyes as he tries to read whatever message he’s looking for in her eyes, and she arches a brow in reply – a silent dare.

He sighs. “I won’t pick a guy for you.”

“Pity.”

Bellamy takes a sip of his drink, but that doesn’t quite hide the smile on his lips.

Everything about this moment is surreal to Clarke, even if she knows Bellamy’s best friend is most definitely in a relationship with another guy, and so her roommate might be somewhat used to that kind of things. She isn’t. She isn’t because her mother never quite got over her perfect daughter coming out to her, she isn’t because people often mislabel her sexuality, erase it, put her into neat little boxes she doesn’t want to be put in. That’s just the way it is and, as annoying and frustrating and awful as it gets, she’s used to it. She’s used to it all.

What she isn’t used to are people like Bellamy – people who don’t ask questions, who roll with it like she just told them her favourite colour is blue and that’s it.

So she downs her glass, for good measure.

“Brunettes,” she says after while, her voice sounding broken and uncertain even to her own ears. “I’m into brunette, regardless of gender.”

Bellamy nods, scans the room once more, points her to a pretty girl with brown hair and the shortest skirt Clarke has ever seen.

 

…

 

She doesn’t come home with the brunette.

She comes home drunk, with the arm of an equally drunk Bellamy around her shoulders. He sings to her ear, the lyrics indecent enough to make her blush, and laughs that deep laugh of his that brings a shiver down her spine. Even with alcohol numbing her mind – or perhaps because of it, who knows – she can’t ignore the way he affects her, with his stupidly low, stupidly attractive voice, and how warm he is against her, and how well she fits in the crook of his arm.

Which is ridiculous, because it’s Bellamy.

And she definitely isn’t attracted to her roommate.

She tells him so as she drags his ass up the stairs, stumbling every so often and almost falling when she misses the last step. He just laughs, and singsongs, “Liar, liar, pants on fire. You said you like brunettes.”

She scoffs. This is ridiculous. “Doesn’t mean I’m attracted to every person with brown hair I see, dickhead.”

“Pity…”

It takes her two longs minutes to put the key in the door and open it. Even longer to shove Bellamy in his room for him to sleep. He falls face-first on his bed, still clothed, still wearing his shoes, and starts snoring in a matter of seconds. She rolls her eyes and let him be, because she isn’t his mother and definitely isn’t his girlfriend, and so she has better things to do than take off his shoes for him and tug him it.

Clarke sighs merrily as, finally wearing her PJs, she snuggles under the warmth of her comforter. Her head is pounding but she can’t find the strength to stand up again and grab a glass of water. She’ll regret it comes morning, but worrying about her hangover isn’t on her list of priorities right now.

She falls asleep to thoughts of freckles and long tanned legs and Spanish curses.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little heads-up, guys: I've had a bunch of reviews saying how Bellarke are "meant to be" and all that jazz, so for people who believe so reading this fic, I advise to go back and read the author's not in the first chapter. I don't want anyone to think this fic is something it's clearly not.
> 
> Second point: I've never watched Rome and barely know anything about it, so bear with me on that one.

She sits at the kitchen island, piece of paper between her fingers as she taps it against the counter, deep in thoughts. So deep in thoughts indeed that she doesn’t notice Bellamy entering the room until he’s right in front of her, leaning with elbows on the kitchen island and staring at her like he’s some kind of Charles Xavier and can read her mind. Clarke glares, because it’s not creepy at all.

“Just call her already and be done with it.”

It sounds so simple when he puts it that way – it is everything but. Clarke isn’t used to random hooks-up, or even to one-night stands. Hell she’s barely used to relationships as it is, too busy studying to really have time with things as mundane as _dating_. So calling a girl who gave her number after banging her roommate? Huh, huh. That screams of bad news to Clarke.

When she doesn’t make a move to grab her phone, Bellamy mutters a, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” before lunging for the piece of paper. Clarke is too distracted to stop him this time, and then her head shots up when he grins at her, waving Raven’s number in front of her nose with a victorious face.

“I’ll call her for you, then.”

“Bellamy, _don’t_.” She jumps to her feet as she says it, ready to throw herself at him to grab the piece of paper back – this ‘wingman’ thing of his was cute at the bar two days ago, now it’s just plain annoying – but he follows her movements around the kitchen island. To the right, then to the left, then the right again, like they’re five year-old playing tag. It’s a reminder that he’s an older brother and has eighteen years of being his annoying self behind him. Clarke can’t win – which doesn’t mean she won’t try anyway.

“She does that thing with her tongue,” he teases as he swipes his across his teeth.

“Gross.” Clarke makes a face. “Never speak again.”

He widens his eyes mockingly before running towards the living room, and she follows in a heartbeat. What he has in strength she has in speed, and it takes her only a few steps to jump on his back, one arm around his shoulders and both legs around his waist, as she tries to grab the piece of paper still in his hand. It’s quite seriously the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done, and Clarke has had her fair share of embarrassing moments before.

“Give it back!” she yells as she stretches her arm and leans forwards. Which isn’t a good idea in and out of itself when she’s on Bellamy’s back, because it means he leans forwards too to keep his balance, and then she’s putting all her weight on his shoulders.

They fall head first on the sofa in a matter of seconds, and then Clarke attacks again, all groans and feral yelps as she desperately tries to grab the paper. Which she does after valiant efforts, whooping excitedly when her fingers close around the paper. She jumps on her feet and away from him, and Bellamy follows a moment later as she runs away, snaking an arm around her waist to pull her back to him.

They’re laughing through heavy pants by now, and Bellamy tightens his hold on her to try and grab the piece of paper again, never one to admit defeat so easily. They struggle for a couple more moment before Clarke freezes on the spot.

“Bellamy…” she says, and his name alone is enough of a warning.

He stops too, and the stillness of them makes it all the more obvious, with his chest pressed to her back, his hips to her ass. It takes him a second before he steps back.

“Fuck. Shit. Sorry.” When she looks at him above her shoulder, he’s rubbing his nose with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to – natural body reaction. _Sorry_.”

He takes another step back, just in case, and refuses to meet her eyes. Red colour his cheeks, the freckles even more noticeable that way, and Clarke stares at his skin for longer than is appropriate before she shakes her head and focuses on something else.

“I should take a shower then,” she says, a little lamely, as she points to the bathroom door.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he replies with a cold chuckle that does nothing to ease her mind.

She runs to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her before she leans against it with a heavy sigh. When she looks at her reflexion in the mirror, her eyes are a vibrant blue and her cheeks are flushed too – she looks happy, she realises with astonishment. And then she looks down at the paper in her hand, now crumpled and torn around the corners, and has no idea why she feels so torn all of a sudden.

 

…

 

Coming home to find Bellamy sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, papers scattered all around him, has become your regular Wednesday for Clarke (and Monday, and Tuesday, and…). His laptop is propped up on a stack of books on the coffee table, next to a dozen empty cups of tea and a half-eaten box of Oreos. He’s seriously a mess when he’s grading papers.

The television is unexpectedly _not_ showing a documentary, though, and Clarke frowns for a second at the actors on screen. “Is that the fish guy from Game of Thrones?”

Bellamy raises his head from the note he’s scribbling, red pen stuck between his teeth, and nods in reply. Clarke isn’t sure she wants to know more about it or not – it’s the guy who gets angry at bad peplum movies for sport, after all – so instead she grabs an Oreo and plops down on the couch behind him, lying down immediately. She nibbles on the cookie for a few seconds, watching the TV, before her curiosity gets the better of her.

“What are you doing, exactly?”

He sniffs a little and crosses out something on the paper he’s grading, before gives her a reply. “Extra credits. Told the students to watch one episode of _Rome_ of their liking and list all the historical inaccuracies they found.”

She snorts a little and rolls her eyes – and she thought she was a nerd? Please. She’s an amateur next to this guy. Bellamy is that close to dressing up as a Gladiator during the weekends to re-enact major battles for fun. That’s a whole new level of nerdiness.

“It’s just an excuse to binge-watch the show, isn’t it?”

The pause is comically long, and he rubs his nose with his thumb before he sighs. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Have you been doing this all day?” she ask as she pushes his head a little, ruffles his hair in the process to make him groan in reply. “Did you even shower?”

He turns his head to make a face at her over his shoulder, to which Clarke replies by poking her tongue out at him, before he focuses back on both the episode and the paper propped up on his knees. Sometimes, it is hard to picture him as a TA, all serious and no-nonsense face in front of a class full of undergrads. Clarke is used to Roommate Bellamy, who never wears pants and eats cereals for dinner and acts like a five year-old with her. She can’t imagine him any other way, and almost snorts at the idea of him having some kind of authority over twenty-somethings. He doesn’t even have an ounce of authority with Octavia.

“You’ve got mail, by the way,” he says, pulling Clarke out of her daydreams. “Your mother found you.”

“Took her long enough,” she replies with a sigh – she wouldn’t even be surprised if Abby had hired a private detective to know where her daughter lives. Not that she’s all that hard to find, her name is one the mailbox and all now. Clarke presses her face in the pillow, and pokes Bellamy’s neck twice with one finger. “Get it for me.”

He chuckles, all sarcastic and shit. “Yeah, _sure_.”

“Come _ooooon_ , Bellamy.”

He doesn’t turn his head to glare at him, but she can feel the power of his eye roll all the same – exasperated and sarcastic. Her chances of success are close to zero, what with him growing up with a little sister who has a penchant for pouting and whining, but Clarke feels like a little shit today, and so she keeps poking on his neck as she pleads for his name. Because it’s fun. And she’s bored. But mostly because it’s fun.

“You know it’s not going to work, right?”

She doesn’t reply, instead puts her fingers in her mouth and then in his ear, smirking victoriously when he makes some kind of gagging nose and wipes at his ear. She might be an only child, but she grew up with Wells, which is about the same thing as having a brother, so she knows which buttons to push – sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Mostly it just reminds her of how much she misses Wells, all of a sudden, and so she keeps poking Bellamy’s neck in hope her nostalgia will go away.

She’s still poking his neck, more of a mechanical motion than anything else at this point, and she’s pretty sure he doesn’t even notice anymore, when she looks back to the television because she might as well watch the show while she’s at it. Just to pass time, or something. But as soon as her eyes land on the screen, and as soon as she recognizes the actor on said screen, a grin blossoms on her mouth.

“Is that Poseidon?”

Bellamy is caught off-guard by her question, looking up from the paper he’s grading to see what she’s actually talking about. It takes him a second, and then –

“For fuck’s sake!” He throws his red pen on the coffee table, and with it the paper, before he stands up and head for the kitchen. “I don’t even want to look at you right now.”

A laugh bubbles out of Clarke’s mouth even as she fishes for her phone in the pocket of her jeans, fingers quickly typing a text. _Percy Jackson: 1. Bellamy: 0_.

The phone pings with Octavia’s reply only seconds later. _Come on, that’s an easy one. Do better_.

She’s still chuckling to herself when Bellamy comes back to the room – and _okay_ maybe she needs sleep or something. He drops the several envelops on her face, his idea of retaliation perhaps, and so Clarke only sees white for a couple of second before she gathers her mail and sits a little straighter on the couch. Her previous address has been crossed out, her new one written below in Abby’s neat handwriting, the one that makes you doubt she’s a doctor because it’s so perfect. Most of it is just junk Clarke doesn’t care about, from this cosmetic shop or that clothing brand, but she also finds a letter from the university officially stating that she no longer is a student of theirs (this one opened, and then closed against with tape, which makes her roll her eyes) as well as an invitation to one of her high school friends’ wedding (she doesn’t care).

It is only when she reaches the last envelop of the stack that she freezes, breathing out a curse at the logo on the top left corner. Bellamy glances at her above his shoulder to make sure she’s okay – a very Bellamy thing to do, even when he’s pissed – before doing some kind of double-check when he realises that she very much _isn’t_.

“You okay?”

“She’s such a bitch,” she whispers as she opens the letter, not needing to read it to know what it is about. She does it anyway, the words a confirmation of her thoughts. “I can’t believe…”

Without a second thought, she jumps to her feet, knocking Bellamy’s shoulder in the process. He groans a little, but mostly he looks up to her with worry in her eyes – not that Clarke notices, because she’s already making a beeline for her shoes and jacket, eye wandering around the room for her car key. A curse escapes her lips as she remembers her car is in the shop right now, and so she turns back to face Bellamy.

He’s still sitting on the floor, body turned towards her, eyebrows up to his hairline with a hundred questions left unsaid.

“I need to borrow your car,” she tells him. Demands. Orders. It’s all just semantics, but she won’t take no for an answer.

“No way,” he replies as he stands up too. “I’m not letting you drive in that state.”

“Bellamy…” she sighs. She doesn’t have time for his games, or his big brother act, not when she’s nervously tugging on a strand of hair and nibbling her bottom lip. She just needs to deal with this problem, as soon as possible – if it’s not too late.

But Bellamy grabs his jacket, too, and her eyes widen when he checks the pocket for his keys and papers. “Okay, let’s go.” He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t even say anything, just nods for her to go outside and follows, locking the door behind the both of them.

She wonders if he’ll ever stop surprising her.

 

…

 

“Turn left,” she tells him, pointing to the parking lot to their left at the same time.

They have barely spoken since they left the apartment, the silence between them only broken by Clarke’s indications as she told him which way to go. Not once did he ask questions, but the frown never leaving his brows told her it wasn’t for a lack of wanting. He’s a curious man after all – some (Octavia) would even say nosy at times but Clarke knows it comes from a place of worry and nothing else.

He parks close to the front door, frowns even more as he reads the sign on the wall.

“I don’t understand,” is all he says as he gets out of the car.

She pinches the bridge of her nose even as she follows him outside. This isn’t an easy conversation to have, not with him of all people – not with Bellamy who struggles to pay for Octavia’s tuition all the while keeping food in the fridge, not for Bellamy who knows what it feels like to go to bed with an empty stomach. She can only sound like the rich little girl she most definitely is, and it makes her uncomfortable to voice it out loud to him.

So she sighs, to give herself some composure and a few mores seconds to gather her thoughts. “My mother wanted me to be Georgina Darcy, basically.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, as amused as it is confused, and it does a funny thing to his face. “It was expected of me to have interesting hobbies, you only? I can play tennis and I’m not half-bad at the piano and – well, painting was good, as long as it stayed a hobby.”

Realisation and understanding settle on his face as Bellamy holds the door open to her, and they both slip inside the building, blinking for their eyes to accustom to the dim lights. The sound of basses plays in the distance, and Clarke closes her eyes to take it all in. She breathes in deeply, fumes of paint and chemicals, of paper and metal and smoke. She has missed this smell, full of creativity and passion and madness – had missed it so much, what with her job taking all of her free time, pencil twirling between her fingers to take an order instead of drawing.

Her hand finds Bellamy’s now, fingers intertwined as she leads him between the different booths and then up the stairs. His confusion crashes against her in waves as they make their way through the shared artist studios, but she barely glances at him over her shoulder as she takes a turn left, then stops at the fourth booth to her left.

A sigh of relief escapes her lips at her art supplies still there, just the way she left them – messy and dirty, a sketchbook open on her little desk, a bag full of empty metal cans on the floor, some drawings pinned to the walls, even a kettle abandoned in a corner. A little corner of paradise, her little art studio.

“So you just… rent the place and use it to draw?” Bellamy asks suddenly.

He’s staring at one of the drawings on the wall, a bunch of flowers she had drawn in her Nana’s garden last summer – still frowning, but that’s Bellamy for you.

“Basically, yes. My mother didn’t like all my stuff lying around, said it was messy. Here is easier.”

As far away from the house as possible, as if Abby could pretend her daughter’s love for art didn’t exist if she couldn’t see it. It had never worked that way, though, and had never stopped Clarke from spending hours between those four walls, charcoal and paint under her nails.

“She stopped paying last month, apparently,” Clarke adds, for good measure.

She has no idea how she’s supposed to pay now – will probably have to work a few more hours at the dinner to afford it, and it would be damn useless too since more work means less free time, and what’s the point of paying for her studio if she can’t use it? She wants to pull on her hair and screams a little, because it all sounds very unfair all of a sudden.

(“Imagine being this rich,” Bellamy mumbles to himself, and she can’t even resent him for that.)

With a sigh she rummages through her purse, looking for her wallet. She can afford one month, at the very most, and then she’ll see how she handle things. She has no other choice, after all.

“Stay here, okay?” she tells Bellamy, without really looking at him. “I’ll find the manager and then we can go.”

She does so in less than fifteen minutes – finding the manager and convincing him not to kick her out, and paying the rent for this month and the next one. She still can’t believe Abby would stood so low as to just stop paying all of a sudden; an afterthought, probably, after checking her accounts at the end of the month. Her feelings about her daughter’s new life couldn’t have been made clearer.

When she comes back to her booth – heart heavier and wallet lighter – it’s to find Bellamy leaning against the wall, glare in his eyes and arms folded on his chest, chin up. She groans internally, not wanting to know what happened for him to go all peacock all of a sudden.

It is made clear a second later, thought, when she sees the man standing in front of her roommate, sporting the same position as well as dark skin and even darker tattoos. “Lincoln?” she asks, and the man looks her way, his scowl less pronounced on his features – the equivalent of a smile for him.

“Do you know him?” he asks, with a nod toward Bellamy.

She rolls her eyes as his grumpy chivalrous manners. “Yeah, he’s with me, that’s fine. He’s not going to steal my shit.”

Bellamy looks downright offended that anyone could believe he would be stealing people’s shit in the art studio, but oh well – it had happened in the past, and Clarke doesn’t blame Lincoln for being on the defensive every time a stranger enters the building. They all know each other, after all, so anyone who isn’t an artist always stands out like a sore thumb.

“Lincoln, are you – oh.”

They all turn their head to the sound of the newcomer’s voice, as she stands in the entrance of the booth next to Clarke’s. She doesn’t say hello when she sees Lincoln isn’t alone, doesn’t do anything at all actually – just stands there, staring at them as if trying to read their minds, or maybe kill them with her thoughts.

(She’s pretty, too, despite the deep scowl on her features. Petite and all sharp angles, brown hair pulled back into intricate braids, a tattoo peaking down the sleeve of her t-shirt. Exactly Clarke’s type.)

“Lexa, this is Clarke. She’s in that booth,” Lincoln introduces her, nodding to Clarke’s space. “Clarke, that’s Lexa.”

Clarke almost smirks when Bellamy’s offended look is back in a matter of seconds at not being introduced – hell, at being disregarded altogether, – but she can’t be bothered to care when Lexa is holding a hand for her to shake, fingers smeared with paint and nails painted golden.

There are sparkles in their handshake, and she swears Lexa feels it too.


	5. Chapter 5

Bellamy is going to kill her.

Clarke is accepting her fate, even if she disapproves of her roommate’s overbearing, suffocating big brother behaviour. But her demise seems obvious now because Octavia – proud, stubborn, takes-self-defence-classes-for-kicks-and-giggles Octavia – is giggling like a schoolgirl and Clarke can only watching in horror as the brunette puts a hand on Lincoln’s forearm as she laughs, her head thrown back to show the expense of her gracious neck.

It occurs to Clarke that it is the first time she’s seen Lincoln smiling since she met him a couple of years ago – a full, bright smile, not just the tight-lipped one he offers her most of the time. Two hundred pounds of muscles and black inks, smiling like the cat who ate the canary, and completely smitten with the girl in front of him.

The eight-year-younger-than-him girl.

Clarke wonders which song will be the best choice for her funeral.

She’s so dead.

Clarke hadn’t planned this, really. She hadn’t even spared a thought for Lincoln as she had invited Octavia over to the studios, because Octavia had been curious about the place and it had been a while since the two of them had hang out together for the sake of it. It had been a good idea at first, and Octavia had been perfectly charmed – both by the place and by Clarke’s art. Not as charmed as now, standing in front her bulk of her probably-future-boyfriend. Because what Octavia wants, Octavia gets, and Clarke has no doubt as to the outcome of that discussion.

Especially with the way Lincoln leans against the wall, arm loosely folded on his chest and legs crosses at the ankles, perfectly at ease with the brunette spitfire in front of him. If it were a fairy tale, Clarke would probably call it love at first sight. But it’s real life, so she calls it for what it is – Bellamy’s heart attack in the making.

Clarke forces herself to look back to her work, even if her eyes dart back to the couple every so often – it’s like a train wreck in the making and she can’t look away. Which is stupid, really, because she thinks Octavia is old enough to make her own decisions now and Bellamy is too smothering with her; the big brother act is not always a good excuse. But there will be no stopping him from throwing a tantrum at his eighteen-year-old baby sister dating a man older than them all, and Clarke knows she will shoulder some part of the blame.

All she can do is soldier on and brace herself.

“Clarke.”

Startled by the sound of her own name, Clarke raises her head to find Lincoln’s friend in front of her, the one who was with him last week. Clarke forces herself not to flush – both at being caught staring and at the girl’s proximity. She fails miserably, cheeks a little hotter as she loses herself in the girl’s grey eyes.

“Yeah,” she finds herself saying after long seconds. “Lexa, right?”

The brunette gives her one stiff nod, not even a smile to soften her sharp features. She’s beautiful in a very intense way, Clarke notices, all dark shadows and sharp angles and high cheekbones. Her hair is pulled back into several intricate braid and a tattoo peaks down the sleeve of her t-shirt.

Clarke is mesmerized.

“Do you like the opera?” Lexa asks, voice low but not soft, like someone sharpening a knife.

“Yeah, sure,” Clarke replies, and it sounds more like a question than an answer.

“I have tickets for tonight’s show. Russian composer.”

Clarke waits for the invitation, but it never comes. Lexa simply waits a few second before she raises an eyebrow, because apparently the question was implied. Clarke finds herself blushing once more for her brain being too slow to catch up on clues.

“I’d like to come, yeah.”

“Great,” Lexa says with the ghost of a twist at the corner of her mouth, which may or may not be a smile in her book. Clarke isn’t sure. “Let’s exchange numbers so I can come and pick you up. Seven o’clock.”

Lexa’s authoritative behaviour is off-putting to say the least, but Clarke doesn’t mind. She like when girls are confident enough to know what they want, to be in charge. It’s a bit of a turn-on, if she’s honest with herself. So she finds herself handing her phone to Lexa so the brunette can enter her number, and then call herself. The ringtone comes from the back pocket of her jeans, and she nods once before hanging up and handing Clarke her phone back.

“See you tonight,” she says as she turns around and leaves.

Clarke stares into the empty space where Lexa was seconds ago, blinking for no reason and wondering if she agreed to a date without really noticing. Probably. Which, new, but not particularly bothersome.

That’s how Octavia finds hers when she struts her way back to Clarke’s booth, staring into the nothingness with a puzzled expression on her face. Octavia waves in front of Clarke’s eyes, effectively startling her out of her thoughts.

“I’ve got a date!” she exclaims, all excitingly, as she throws a wink at Lincoln over her shoulder.

“So do I.”

“Wow – well done!”

Clarke laughs.

 

…

 

“MasterChef marathon tonight?”

Clarke rolls her eyes playfully at the question Bellamy throws from the other side of the apartment. She can’t even believe that this dumb idea they had a few weeks back became A Thing – binge-watching old MasterChef episodes while stuffing themselves with the greasiest junk food there is, for kicks and giggles. They decided to make it even worse with the kid version of the program, because there is something particularly hilarious about watching children manage to cook better meals than they even will. (Clarke almost burnt down the kitchen trying to make pancakes last month, it was a disaster.)

She puts one her earrings before stepping out of the bathroom, locating Bellamy in the kitchen. She walks towards him as she replies, “Sorry, can’t. I have a date tonight.”

“Oh, _really_?” he asks. It’s impressive, how mocking he can make a single word. “Who’s the lucky person?”

“Lexa, from…”

“Oh yeah, the girl with the hair.”

Clarke can’t help it – she snorts through her nose and rolls her eyes, before she stops in front of Bellamy and turns around as she points to her back. The dress hangs off her shoulders a bit, open as to show the expense of her back.

“Zip me up,” she tells him. “And thank you for narrowing it down to every woman on the planet beside, like, Charlize Theron in Mad Max. Who I would date in a heartbeat too, for the record.”

He laughs that deep, booming laugh of his as he grabs her dress and zips it up in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t let his knuckles brush against her bare skin – she’s grateful for it, even if she doesn’t know why he would even do it in the first place. He may be a pig sometimes, but not like that.

“Where you going, all dolled up like that?”

Clarke leans against the kitchen island for support as she slips on one high heel, then the other, fastening the strap with one hand while the other holds on to the counter. When she is certain she won’t lose her balance and make an ass of herself in front of her roommate, she stands straighter, brushing her hands against the front of her dress to smooth down invisible wrinkles.

“The opera,” she says simply.

“ _Fancy_.”

And here’s with the mocking tone again. Clarke only glares at Bellamy before she leaves the kitchen, heels clicking against the tiled floor as she goes to her room to grab her handbag and make sure her hair is still perfectly up in its bun, her eyeliner still sharp on her lids. She checks in her bag for her phone, wallet and keys, then goes back to the living room.

Bellamy is standing in the doorframe leading to the kitchen, looking at her like he’s judging Clarke’s entire life up until now. She wants to roll her eyes, or maybe to poke her tongue out at him. But mostly she wants to tell him to piss off because, yes, it is a posh date with an obviously posh girl, but it’s not her fault if he didn’t grow up in that environment. That it’s not fair for him to blame her for enjoying the opera, because she saw her first representation when she was six and fell in love on the spot and, yeah, maybe it isn’t fair but it’s not her fault.

She says nothing.

Almost runs to the door when someone knocks.

The clock on the Internet router reads seven o’clock sharp, and Clarke can’t even say she is surprised that Lexa is punctual that way. She looks the type, after all. Clarke glares at Bellamy one last time before opening the door and smiling at Lexa. Lexa – doesn’t smile as much as lets her muscles relax her bit, which Clarke takes as progress.

“Hello, Clarke,” she says simply.

“Be back before midnight, young lady,” Bellamy chimes him from his spot still leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, and Clarke very much wants to slip off of her high heel so she can throw it in his smug face.

“Ignore him,” she tells Lexa. Then, a little louder, “he’s just an asshole.”

Clarke takes the other girl’s arm to lead her down the hallway and to close the door behind her. She clenches her jaw as Bellamy laughs a, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and swears she’s going to tell him about Octavia and Lincoln just for the pleasure of seeing him fume. He deserves it.

Shaking her head a little, Clarke focuses back on Lexa next to her, and she won’t let her moron of a roommate invade her thoughts when she’s on a date with a beautiful woman who likes Russian operas. She apparently missed the moment her hand travelled down Lexa’s arm, because they are holding hands now, fingers entwined and all, and she hadn’t even noticed. So she chases Bellamy away from her thoughts once and for all, and asks, “What’s your favourite opera?”

Lexa, as it turns out, is more of a ballet kind of girl, and they have a fifteen-minute long discussion about classic versus modern ballets while Lexa drives them to the opera. There is somewhat of a tight traffic, nothing surprising in Arkadia a Saturday night, and so the conversation moves from ballet to painting, their favourite style (Impressionism for Clarke, post-modernism for Lexa) as well as the museums they visited, the cities they travelled to.

Lexa never says so explicitly, but it’s made clear along the way that her family is as rich as the Griffins, if not more. She visits some European city every year during the summer and favours Berlin over any other one – for the parties, she says, and the DJs.

“Your parents know about your sexuality?” Clarke finds herself asking while Lexa drives around the block to find a free spot where to park.

“Yes,” she replies, and leaves it at that as she turns to enter a parking lot. “They like to pretend it’s not a thing, as if putting their head in the sand would change the fact that their daughter is a lesbian. Yours?”

“My mother is fine with it, mostly, I think. I don’t know, we never really talked about it. Dad died before I could come out of the closet.”

Lexa nods. She doesn’t say sorry, or any of the stock phrases people like to throw around when Clarke mentions her dead dad. Lexa just nods, and parks into an empty spot. Clarke opens the door and goes out of the car, shivering slightly as the soft wind brushes against her shoulders.

“And does you mother approves of you living with a man?”

The question is seemingly harmless, but Clarke doesn’t miss the edge to Lexa’s tone – something akin to jealousy, perhaps. She snorts a little, both at the feeling Lexa poured in her question and at the idea of Dr Abigail Griffin meeting Bellamy.

“Well, knowing I’m living with Bellamy because she kicked me out, I don’t really care about what she thinks.”

The street is too dark for Clarke to really see, but she swears Lexa pursed her lips in irritation. It’s weird, talking about it – Octavia and Bellamy know, of course, and her other friends are aware of the gist of it, but it’s not a topic Clarke likes to linger on if she has the choice. Rich little girl throwing a tantrum because her rich powerful mother doesn’t agree with her, a little voice laughs in her head, one that sounds a lot like Bellamy’s.

“I thought your mother was fine with your sexuality?”

Clarke laughs, and it sounds as bitter as they come. “Yeah. It’s the life choices I consciously made she didn’t agree with.”

She leaves it at that, because she doesn’t really want to talk about it while she’s on a first date. Lexa doesn’t prod anyway – she isn’t the type to indulge into morbid curiosity, quite obviously – and laces her fingers with Clarke’s once more at they reach the opera. They climb up the stairs leading to the main entrance, and Lexa opens her bag to fish out their tickets before handing them to the man at the door.

Their seats are on the second row, right in the middle, and Clarke forces herself not to think of it in comparison to her salary at the diner as she sits next to Lexa. Between the bills and her studio and basic necessities, she can barely afford a ticket at the movies these days – she doesn’t even want to think how difficult it would be to buy a ticket to the theatre, or something of the like.

“So, what are you studying?” she asks Lexa, more to distract herself from her thoughts before the beginning of the representation than anything else. Well, also because she’s curious about the answer, obviously.

“Politics,” Lexa says, and nothing else.

“Oh, my best friend studies politics too. He’s at Harvard.”

“Good school.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Clarke also guesses talking to Lexa will need some getting used to – she’s fine as long as they talk arts, and probably literature, but shuts down the minute things become too personal. Clarke can understand why, but she is so used to Octavia’s easy chatter and the silent conversations she can hold with Wells in just a glance. What she isn’t used to is being around introverts, which Lexa clearly is.

So Clarkes does just that – speaks of the latest book she’s read – and Lexa eases into the conversation after a few moments, features softening a bit as she talks about the books she had to read for that women’s studies class she took last semester. They’re discussing the main themes of Persepolis when the lights flicker above their heads, and so they fall into a comfortable silence as people rush to their seats before the beginning of the representation.

The story is tragic, of course, and the singers heartbreakingly marvellous, and Clarke’s eyes are a little misty by the time the first act is over. Her fingers once more laced with Lexa’s – a habit she wouldn’t mind growing into – they leave the room to go to the bar and have a drink before the show starts again. Lexa doesn’t seem as affected by it as Clarke is, but she talks animatedly about it nonetheless, the story and the costumes and the voices.

Clarke is downright tearing by the time the curtain falls and the audience burst into loud cheers. She stands up with everyone else when the artists come back on stage to receive their standing ovation, and laughs through her tears when Lexa reaches into her bag and pulls out a tissue for her. She dabs the bottom of her eyes with it, hoping her mascara is as waterproof as it claimed.

Her eyes are still a bit misty by the time they go back to the car, and so Clarke isn’t certain if it is a trick of the eyes or if a tentative smile curls up one corner of Lexa’s mouth as she takes her place behind the wheel. Most likely the tears, but Clarke stares a little too long even as Lexa starts the engine and drives away from the opera. A relatively peaceful silence settles over the car, only broken here and there by a few bribes of conversation they let linger in the air.

Clarke likes that – how Lexa doesn’t need to fill every second of her life with chatter and conversations, how she enjoys the quiet and uses words with parsimony. Nothing seems forced or over-the-top, allowing them to simply enjoy each other’s company.

Soon Lexa pulls over in front of Clarke’s building, and both women get out of the car, dragging their feet a little only to stop in front of the main entrance. Clarke doesn’t fish for her keys in her bag, instead turns to the brunette with a soft smile. Her mind still buzzes with the classical music, heart beating to the voices and emotions, and she wants to remain in that moment, wants the evening to go on a little while longer.

She knows it to be impossible, though – it is but the first date and, unlike Bellamy, she doesn’t feel comfortable bringing someone over. So she lets her smile widen on her lips as she breathes a little, “That was fun.”

Lexa gives one of her nods. “It was, indeed.”

If it was someone else – a guy who’d taken her to the restaurant, a girl who’d taken her to the movies – Clarke wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have gone for a kiss, first date or not, because she has never been one to back away from such moments of intimacy. But Clarke knows things are different with Lexa, knows they aren’t quite there yet.

So, even if the brunette’s lips are tantalizing, it’s her cheek Clarke brushes her lips against, a barely there caress that lingers for a little longer than necessary. It is sweet and innocent, like a middle school crush of sorts, yet manages to have Lexa all flustered in a second, red high on her cheekbones and breath catching in her throat.

Clarke throws a wink over her shoulder as she heads for the entrance door, along with a, “We should do it again.” Only when she is running up the stairs does she press a hand to her chest, fingertips against the beating staccato of her heart. A blush may be spreading on her face too, eyes widened and breathing laboured, as she enters the apartment on her tiptoes.

It is no use, of course, since Bellamy is lounging on the couch in front of some obscure documentary (should she and Octavia set up an intervention?) and he raises his head when he hears her coming, smug grin and all. “How did it go?” he asks, dwelling on the vowels like the asshole he is.

Clarke falls on the couch next to him, kicks out her heels, and puts her aching feet on the coffee table. With a sigh, she lets her head fall against the couch, closing her eyes with a smile she knows to be a little dopey. “It was great.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

When she opens her eyes again, it’s to his closed fist raised in front of her, and so Clarke chuckles as she closes her fist, and bumps it against his.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually dreamt of the panda thing a few months back, and then shrugged it off. Didn't expect to actually find the way to write it into a fic but joke's on past me!

The first time Clarke kisses Lexa is also the first time Clarke has sex with Lexa. Their relationship moves forwards really fast all of a sudden, like those exponential functions Clarke hated to study – and that’s the good thing about dropping out, no Maths classes.

It’s kind of weird, having sex knowing her roommate could hear them. She had a solo room in the dorms, courtesy of her mother’s bank account, so the rare times she brought someone over she didn’t have to worry about being loud. She’s never heard Bellamy, and he brings a lot of girls over, but she doesn’t exactly trust the walls’ soundproofing. So they do it as silently as possible, and then Lexa falls asleep with her head on Clarke’s breast. The lights are still on in the living room, and she hopes Bellamy won’t tease her about it.

As it turns out, she shouldn’t really have worried. When she stumbles out of her bedroom the following day, Lexa following her, the first thing she spots is – well about all the mugs they own, on the coffee table. Some are still half full with coffee, and a good number of books are on the table too, and on the couch, and Bellamy’s laptop is propped up on a pile of what looks like encyclopaedias. Bellamy himself sits on the floor, looking at the wall without blinking, and Clarke wonders if he even went to sleep. Answer’s probably no.

She shrugs it off – it’s Bellamy, and Bellamy has already done worst than staying up all night. Clarke grabs two bowls, not without grumbling a little, and pours cereals in it before opening the fridge to grab the bottle of milk too. She glares in the general direction of the living room, as if it would help with her unhappiness at not having her morning coffee, before she goes to sit with Lexa.

They eat in silence until Bellamy stumbles into the kitchen. Clarke has never seen him drunk, so she has no point of comparison, but she guesses that’s what he must look like when he’s really drunk. He opens one cupboard and closes it, then opens another one and closes it, then grows frustrated with himself. Clarke tries not to laugh, but it’s kind of hard when he grabs the bottle of milk and drinks, only to wince and glare at the bottle.

“You okay there, buddy?”

He blinks at her, like he hadn’t realized that she was here up until that moment, and Clarke stifles a laugh. Even more so when he looks at Lexa then, frowns a little, before understanding settles on his features. “Not Furiosa,” he says with a nod, as way of greeting.

Clarke snorts through her nose, and Lexa looks confused.

“You have hair,” Clarke explains, which – okay, isn’t helpful at all, out of context, and Lexa looks even more lost now. But Bellamy is so out of it, eyes glassy with exhaustion and hair a mess on top of his head, that Clarke can only enjoy the moment for what it is: perfect blackmail material.

(She may be an only child, but growing up with Wells taught her a lot.)

He takes another sip of milk and then pouts at her, white droplets clinging to his bottom lip. “I want to be a panda. Pandas don’t have to write thesis, they just chill all day long picking at the best bamboo leaves and they look cute. I want to be a panda, Clarke.”

Clarke gave up on trying not to laugh, at this point. Gosh, she should be filming this, and then send it to Octavia, just for the heck of it. Still, she takes a large inspiration, but breaks into another chuckle halfway through it. It’s complicated, being serious when her roommate is losing his shit in front of her.

“You like sex way too much to be a panda,” she tells him, as serious as can be when having that kind of conversation.

Bellamy seems to ponder on her words, hard, and she wonders how many cups of coffee he had through the night. She isn’t certain you can have an overdose of caffeine, but it looks like Bellamy did. There’s a moment where nothing happens before he says a little ‘ah-ah!’ and points to her like she said something way cleverer than she actually did. Her grins at her, too, all dimples and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes – nobody should be allowed to look this good while sleep-depraved. No one.

“I knew I kept you around for something.”

“Go to bed, Bellamy.”

Any other day, he would go all ‘you aren’t the boss of me’ on her, and he wouldn’t be wrong. But today isn’t any other day, and no matter how hilarious the situation is, Bellamy is still swaying on his feet a little, and Clarke feels bad for him. He will pass out any second now, and she’s rather he be in bed when that happens.

He squints at her, just to be contrary, then pulls the bottle of milk back in the fridge. He stops next to her on his way out, and puts her into a headlock, and she struggles out of it after a few seconds of flailing around. She kicks his leg, and he laughs.

A cough startles her out of the moment, as Bellamy finally leaves the kitchen, and Clarke’s cheeks are on fire when she turns to face Lexa. Truth is, she has forgotten Lexa was here, which is a terrible thing to do with your girlfriend – Clarke has never been relationship material to begin with, but this is just reaching a new low she never thought she would reach.

“So, this is Bellamy,” Lexa says, her voice even.

That unsettles Clarke, more than anything – she doesn’t quite know how to read Lexa, more often than not, and her lack of emotion, or even reaction, throws Clarke off for a second or two. She doesn’t know if Lexa doesn’t react because she doesn’t care, or if she is and she’s hiding it well, or if – yeah, it’s a mess.

“Sorry. We’re not usually like this.”

Lexa does a little hand motion, as if brushing it off, so maybe it’s not half bad and Clarke is just projecting. “You get along with your roommate, that’s good.”

Lexa doesn’t have to get along with her roommate, because her parents rent an apartment near the campus for her, and so she lives alone. Even then, Clarke knows the way she behaves with Bellamy – the easy banter and the overall asshole-ish way they act around each other – isn’t something that always comes with living with other people. Octavia hates her roommate. Wells complains about his on a regular basis, too.

Not that she will complain about Lexa’s lack of complain but…

 

…

 

Clarke has never felt self-conscious about her job.

It pays minimum wage and, on a good day, the tips even allow her to save some money – mostly to pay for art supplies or to pitch in during pizza nights. She works with this girl called Harper, who apparently is a friend of Bellamy’s from high school – everybody in the neighbourhood went to the same school, from what she understands – and Harper is gentle but hard-working, her smiles soft and slaps unforgiving when a patron tries to grope her. Clarke likes her, a lot.

She knows she is lucky, especially since she has never worked in her life before – babysitting here and there doesn’t count. She found the job easily, and she doesn’t completely hate it. It’s a job, it pays the bills, and it’s good enough until she finds something else to do with her life.

She’s joking with Harper about something that’s on TV right now – the crappy device in a corner of the diner, showing some kind of soap-opera that has them both laughing like schoolgirls – when the bell above the door rings. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so the diner is kind of empty right now, and they both turn their head at the same time to greet the newcomer.

Clarke’s usual chirpy catchphrase dies in her throat.

“Lexa?” she says instead, and Harper looks at her funny. “It’s my girlfriend,” she adds for good measure, to which she’s replied by a little nod.

Nobody ever comes to visit when she’s working. There was Octavia, that one time, with her laptop and her books, but the diner doesn’t have free wifi (or any kind of wifi, really) so it’s not exactly practical. Clarke appreciates the feeling, but she understands why her friends don’t come and go as they wish. So for her girlfriend to show up without notice, it throws Clarke off the loop a little. She forces a smile on her lips and grabs a menu before she walks toward Lexa, now sitting at the counter.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d come?”

Lexa smiles, kind of. “I wanted to surprise you.”

But there is something in her eyes as they scan the diner, something that is unsettling to Clarke – like she is judging the place and finding it wanting. It’s not exactly the best diner in town, okay, but it’s clean and the food is good, and most of the customers are nice enough on a good day. She has no idea why she’s suddenly feeling defensive of the place, but Lexa has that way about her that put people on edge sometimes, and it’s working quite well.

(She can afford to go to that fancy coffee shop next to her campus almost every day, and spends time there studying with her friends. It would cost Clarke all her tips of the day to buy one latte, which isn’t exactly how she wants to spend her money. She felt like Lexa was judging her, too, when she tried to explain.)

“What can I get you, then?”

Lexa glares at the menu for a few seconds, like it personally offended her. Clarke forces herself to ignore Harper’s stare, her widening eyes and raised eyebrows – her girlfriend is a handful, nothing new here.

“Green tea and a waffle, please.”

Clarke nods as she scribbles it on her notepad, then moves toward the kitchen to gives the order to the cook. He acknowledges her with a grunt at the same time Harper corners her, hands on her hips and pouts on her lips. It’s supposed to be a scowl, probably, but Harper has that kind of face that makes it impossible for her to look upset or angry.

“Okay, she’s pretty, but seriously?”

“Is this where you tell me I can do better?” Clarke asks, but there is no heat in her voice.

Her friends disapprove, they made it loud and clear – Octavia actually sneered, once, and Monty refuses to meet Lexa after hearing about her from the others. It’s never a really good sign, when your friends don’t approve, but Clarke knows Lexa has a soft side, deep down, beneath the haughty attitude and cold tone of her voice. It’s hard to explain, but Clarke likes her, and she feels uncomfortable every time her friends try to do something about it.

“No, that’s where I tell you to be careful.”

Clarke grabs the plate the cook hands her, and then the mug of hot tea. She smiles at Harper, hoping the other girl will understand there is nothing to worry about. If anything else, Clarke can hold her own, and isn’t one to let anyone walk all over her. She has everything under control, when it comes to her romantic life.

“Here you go,” she tells Lexa as she gives her the food, before leaning against the counter. “So, is there a particular reason as to why you’re here? Not that I mind but…”

“I just wanted to see where you work.”

Clarke doesn’t know it yet, but that sentence is the beginning of the end.

 

…

 

A sigh of relief escapes her lips when she finally slips off her shoes and kicks them next to Bellamy’s. Her feet are killing her after hours spent standing up, as they always do at the end of a working day, and she can’t swallow down the second sigh when she falls on the couch. Bellamy smirks in her general vicinity, even if he doesn’t look away from his laptop. The shadows under his eyes turned to an ugly purple after a few days, but at least he’s no longer freaking out about sending the first draft of his thesis to his teacher. (For now.)

“Lexa and I broke up.”

That manages to get a reaction from him, looking up at her with – not exactly widened eyes, but there is surprise in them all the same.

“Well, she dumped me, really. I think.”

“Is this the moment where I call Octavia or the moment where I go to buy ice cream? I’m getting mixed signals right now.”

It makes her smile, a small self-deprecated smirk as she nests against the cushions. She doesn’t feel like shit, yet, which is new – perhaps she will, later, when everything finally downs on her but… But she had seen it coming, mostly, and it’s not exactly like she was in love with Lexa anyway. It would have hurt a lot more, if she were. No, she just feels – exhausted.

“I’m good. Wouldn’t say no to a beer, though.”

Bellamy nods, and closes his laptop. He groans a little as he stands up, proof that he mustn’t have moved for hours, but it only takes him a few moments to go to the kitchen and grab two beers in the fridge, and to open them before coming back. Clarke takes a long gulp, the bottle cold under her fingers and the alcohol even colder in her throat. It feels good, refreshing.

“Wanna talk about it?” Bellamy asks, finger drawing circles on the mouth of his bottle. His face screams something that’s halfway between _please, don’t_ and _if you do, please don’t cry_ and Clarke wonders how many time he did that to his sister. How many times Octavia cried on his shoulder for assholes who didn’t deserve her?

“There is nothing much to say, really.” She takes another sip, but it tastes bitter on her tongue. “Same old bullshit I hear every time. Oh, bisexuals don’t know what they want, you’ll get bored because I don’t have a penis, you’ll never settle. Yeah. Same biphobic shit.”

“Transphobic, too,” Bellamy adds, and it takes her by surprise.

She stares at him, and he stares back with a raised eyebrow. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that Bellamy isn’t your usual dudebro – he’s an asshole alright, most of the time, but he’s not exactly _bad_ the way other guys are. And he knows his shit, though Clarke guess it has more to do with his best friend being gay than anything else. Still, it’s not every day that someone matches her wits when it comes to that particular subject, and Clarke smiles at him, softly. He grins back with a wink, before taking a long sip of his beer.

“She also resented me for not being rich enough, I guess.”

Bellamy’s grin falls into a sneer, one that isn’t directed at her. “Welcome to my world, princess.” He scoffs and shakes his head, before he adds, “She invited you to the opera, and to that fancy restaurant. It was kind of obvious.”

“Do you have to be a dick about it?”

“Well, apparently that’s what you need so…”

His sentence turns into a laugh when she throws one of the cushions at him – he dodges it easily, because she doesn’t have a good aim. Still, his grin is back, and so is hers, which is probably why he did it in the first place. Clarke can only remember the fondness in Octavia’s voice, when she talked about her brother – how good he was to her, even if a pain in the ass, and what a great big brother he was. Clarke isn’t exactly certain when he decided to be that person for her too, when he became protective with her, but she can’t say she minds. It’s always good, when someone has your back no matter what.

She’s still smiling even as a comfortable silence settles between them, and Bellamy takes it as his cue to open Netflix and select a movie for them to watch. She teases him about Troy, just to hear him complain like an old grandpa shouting at the clouds, even if they end up watching a Disney movie – a safe bet, as always. They order pizzas, too, Bellamy’s treat since he didn’t have to buy her ice cream anyway, and argue over The Lion King and Aladdin.

“I think she was jealous of you,” Clarke says after a while, when she’s finished her fourth beer and her mind is a little blurry around the edges. It’s finally settling in – she’s been dumped today, oh my god – and maybe now is a good enough moment to bring in the ice cream, after all.

Bellamy looks puzzled, as he should. “Why?”

“That morning where you were so out of it,” she starts, and he groans loudly as he looks away and rubs his face. Yeah, not exactly his finest hour. “I saw the way she looked at you, like you were a threat or something.”

“Are we still talking about me rambling about pandas? Cause that doesn’t sound threatening.”

“Whatever.”

Of course it was ridiculous, and of course Bellamy isn’t a threat to anyone, ever, but – Clarke saw the way Lexa looked once Bellamy was out of the kitchen. Not jealous but, yeah, pondering. Maybe it only helped with the ideas that led to their break-up, Clarke doesn’t know but, probably. She’s tired thinking about it, the headache throbbing at her temples – it’s been a long day, and an exhausting one at that.

“I can be your panda any day.”

_Bellamy_ ’s exhausting, too.

She glares at him, even as he throws her a shit-eating grin, and she stands up to go lock herself in her room. She needs sleep, and quiet, and to stop thinking about Bellamy being the opposite of a panda. These kinds of thoughts could only lead her down the rabbit hole, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're willing to drop a review, please consider telling me what you thought of that chapter instead of demanding the next one already. Nothing more depressing for a writer than a "more!" or "update soon!" without a kind word about what you just read.


End file.
